21 May 2008

Awatsimaanistsi

lll ) lllllllllllllll Awatsimaanistsi…

Tangibly vibrant, mo aapistsisskitsaato’si. So much energy, so much power, bursting like aapsspinniikoaiksi from the hard shell of winter’s owaistsi. My intuition tells me simply to dance along as a partner or player in this surge of renewed life. Kitawahsinnoon taisitsipssakk, Let go… let go. Miinotoomsoohkomit. Kitaaksiisookoo. Ki nitssksinihpa anni niitsii. It’s been demonstrated. While piipiiaakii labours happily with a group of aakiiksi at mi’kai’stoo, brain-tanning deer hides, I throw a line in the backwater streams of Farm Four ki come away with six apaksskioomiiksi. It’s enough meat for at least two meals in our small household, acquired with very little effort. Then, a couple sleeps later, piipiiaakii ki niisto plant seeds for our annual vegetable garden behind nookoowannaan, ki during our preparation of the ground we gather young foliage from a number of spinach-like, spear-leaf goosefoot plants that have grown of their own accord since saommitsiki’somm. It takes no time at all to fill four ziplock freezer-bags with these nutritious leaves, which piipiiaakii plans to sauté in butter ki garlic, ki serve at various dinners. I imagine that if we occupied ourselves for an entire morning gathering these plants, we’d quickly have enough to last all year, ki a surplus to give away as well. It’s that easy. The goosefoot are that plentiful. Ki yet, they’re only one of at least a dozen local vegetable species I’m aware of that are ready to be harvested right now.

There’s no question, kitawahsinnoon ayiisootssp. But most don’t even seem to recognize this. Among the minority who do, like kiistonnoon, we typically accept only the smallest portion of the gifts offered. It’s as if we’re being treated to an elegant dinner, but have arrived to the event with full stomachs, or find ourselves intimidated by an exotic menu, or just hold back in preparation for some other indulgence planned for afterward. We sit here amongst our hosts, refusing to even sample the food on our plates, choosing instead to snack lightly on a garnish here or there, just enough to feel justified in claiming to have indeed eaten. Oddly, we have a keen interest in making such assertions, in occasionally accepting the invitation to dine, in learning at least the names of the dishes set before us. This is the curious part. Why would we even bother, if we’re not going to surrender ourselves fully to the dining experience?

Matonni, in the evening, I asked myself this same question while sitting in a deep, almost scalding bath, walking myself through an exercise that I’ve been exploring recently, to help bring clarity to these kinds of dilemmas. Immersed up to my shoulders, I close my eyes ki bring my attention first to noistomi, then to the connection I have with aohkii… not only that which surrounds me in the tub, interfaced against my flesh, but also (ki by extension) to the whole of that which circulates throughout kitawahsinnoon… flowing from the miistakiistsi ki maksisskommiksi down across the prairies, coalescing in pools that feed the sky ki eventually circulate back again. In this manner, I realize a sensation of inseparability between noistomi ki aohkii, as if they are one ki the same. It is just as matsi’sai’piyi ainihkiwa, aohkii noistominnaan. Ki it is similar to the sensation I experience in sstsiiysskaan, where I am no longer so much physical, but spirit.

From this state of heightened or adjusted awareness, there is no longer any notion of time, nor concept of separation over distance. I can travel via noistomi, aohkii, wherever I please, instantaneously, searching for answers to whatever questions happen to be most relevant in the moment. On this particular occasion, I want to return to the events of earlier in the day, when ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto drove to miistsi kawahkoistsi ki ni’tommoistsi west of Nanton to visit aitapisskoistsi. I sought to re-experience our encounters with these places from the perspective of this different form of consciousness, to feel around for anything I may have missed when relying on a more limited set of sensory capacities.

Our first stop that day had been at aakiipisskaan, where ki’naksaapo’p hoped to get some film footage of omiksi kakanottsstookiikoaiksi I’d photographed on my recent pass through the area. We were lucky, or perhaps aakiipisskaan had been awaiting our arrival. On the walk over to the jump, I found my first mi’ksikatsi oyiiyis, hidden under some gooseberry brush high on the ridge. Then, when we entered omi pisskaan, we found not only the nested chicks, but also a full-grown kakanottsstooki, perched picturesquely on a rock shelf just below the ancient carving of iipisowahsi. It was, in fact, the same shelf where I’d left ninnisskimm overnight during sa’aiki’somm, in an attempt to gain naatoyiipaapao’kaanistsi. That prior evening, as I drove in the dark toward Edmonton, I’d experienced a doubling of noistomi – one self in the vehicle, another walking the path to aakiipisskaan. Ki as the latter self rounded the cliff-side ki approached the hollow of the rock shelf, I encountered a man there, waiting, silent. The features of ma ninna were not distinct enough to describe in any detail. He was more phantom than physical. He was old, but young. At first my skin crawled when I recognized his presence, but I pushed this initial fear aside ki followed as he led me further along the cliff-face, into a low-ceiling cave. I knew this place well. The cave had a long, narrow window facing across omi kawahkoyi. Ki as I stood there with ma ninna, he made a sign as if shooting an arrow out through the gap, toward some rock formations on the opposite side. The next day, I’d returned to collect ninnisskimm, ki imagined that ma ninna would be there when I came to the shelf. He wasn’t. Nor, to my surprise, was ninnisskimm. Then I looked down into some crevices in the rock, ki found it, the leather strap that transformed it into a necklace eaten cleanly away by rodents. Annohk, what remains of that innisskimm, my first sacred transfer, binds the top of a small skinitsimaan that holds some of nisaaamistsi.

Seeing kakanottsstookii there, on the same rock shelf, as ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto approached aakiipisskaan, brought me immediately back to the encounter with mi ninna. What if the kakanottsstookii was simply another embodiment of that same spirit? Ninnaimsskaiksi, they say, return to us as sipisttoiksi bearing messages. Perhaps he had something to tell me. In the moment though, rather than listen, I allowed the cameras to function as a divide between us ki this other being. Ki’naksaapo’p, with the movie camera, made his way slowly to a position near mi kakanottsstookii, ki then called for my assistance to try ki coax it to take flight. I had wanted to get some close-ups with my still-camera anyway, ki so took the opportunity to approach with very little abandon. Ki ma kakanottsstookii didn’t budge. I walked so close as to start growing intimidated, wondering how I should react if the sipisttoo decided to attack me. But as I considered this possibility, it finally took wing, passing swiftly around the cliff-side ki out of sight.

After aakiipisskaan, nitsitapoohpinnaan a little ways south to an erratic boulder, fissured so as to create a kind of cave. Archaeologists had reported that there were ancient pictographs on the roof of this cave, ki they hadn’t lied. When ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto wedged ourselves inside, we were immediately impressed with the power of what we were witnessing. There were a number of images – a human figure, the crescent of ko’komiki’somm. But what stood out most, obviously central in significance, was a stylized depiction of ksiistsikomiipi’kssi, connected to a human being by a bolt of zig-zag lightning. Before we dared take any images, ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto made an offering of pisstaahkaan ki spoke to the purposes behind of our visit. Then, after another round of camera-work, we made a careful survey of the immediate area ki decided that we should climb up the steep slope of ni’tommo behind this boulder, to discern whether or not the painting’s significance extended to that height. It was raining all the way up, ki I hadn’t even brought a jacket. But neither of us minded the weather. We were all too satisfied to have become acquainted with this new aitapissko.

Along the slope leading up toward the peak of omi ni’tommo, I continually photographed the plants I was seeing – the wild strawberries, shooting stars, yellow bells, ki violets of many hues. I didn’t gather any of these plants, although I knew them all to be useful. I felt like we were on a mission of sorts, a pilgrimage, ki that it was no time to be bothered with digging in the dirt. At the top of mi ni’tommo, ki’naksaapo’p ki niisto were rewarded with a tremendous view in all directions. Certainly this site must have functioned as saamissapii in the past. There were sandstone rock formations up there as well, one with an odd square painted in niitsi’saan. But nothing more. Ki soon we began to feel chilled, tired, hungry. At this point, we turned back, winding our way slowly down the hillside, past the boulders, ki back out onto the flat below. There, near our vehicle, we found a sizeable cairn that had somehow entirely escaped our notice on the way up. For me, the cairn confirmed the likelihood that this place was, as I’d suspected, the origin site of at least one ninnaimsskaahkoyinnimaan. It would be the story of this event that was painted on the roof of the cave, ki the cairn would have been where people left their offerings over subsequent centuries.

That was what I’d experienced on-site. But back in the tub at nookoowa that evening, revisiting the site remotely by means of connection through aohkii, I felt that there had indeed been much overlooked. Re-sensing the visit we’d had, expanding noistomi to include the land, the rocks, the plants, the birds, I suddenly understood that we matapiiksi of today are stuck in a continual state of fasting. We have become completely invested in the pursuit of knowledge, but not at all in its application, in its life. Ki as we are each inseparable from all else in kitawahsinnoon, as we habitually fast, so too does our environment. By our actions, the collective ecological body is slowly, steadily being drained of its nutritive resources. The aohkii that connects us dissipates in the wind, leaving behind only minerals of cold earth, stone, the bones of the dead. It’s a paradox. Having experienced forced disjunction from our relationship with kitawahsinnoon, we seek a re-acquaintance, a revitalization. But it is this very desire, ki the inquisitive action it incites, that keeps us from living that relationship. The longer we continue to explore mere possibilities, the more our life escapes us.

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.